Audition
by yllimilly
Summary: YGOFFC S8R5. AU. Bakura is the Dollmaker, renown for the remarkable likeness of his sculptures. His one masterpiece, though, is far from being complete...


The Eighth Season, Fifth Round of the YuGiOh Fanfiction Contest Presents  
**Audition**  
a dollshipping ficlet in four acts  
by Milly

starring  
Gemini Elf  
Ryou Bakura  
Dark Bakura  
and  
Dark Necrofear

.n.

The ride to the dollmaker's house is excruciating. The wooden wheels of the carriage, hard and inflexible, send the two passengers jolting at every rock and root and crevice of the unkempt road. They are uncomfortable, but they are used to fear and cold because they are fugitives.

This is called the Black Forest - black because that's what it embodies tonight, moonless and deafening because of its curtain of rainfall, a wall of sound and a wall of light that the human boy is braving for these two girls. He was instructed to take two more promising seamstresses to the mansion. Two young creatures hiding for as long as they can remember because of these features they keep hidden under thick, unassuming grey cloaks.

"Amalia."

At first she doesn't hear her named being called out. The voice is weak and overpowered by the the furious tapping of raindrops and the creaking of the carriage frame and the growling clouds. Her sister calls her again, more plaintively, and this time Amalia responds.

"Camelia." She brings translucent fingers to the girl's forehead, wiping a few blond bangs out of her restless eyes. "Camelia, tell me."

"I'm going to be sick..." Her breaths are shallow. "I'm going to be sick."

"Calm down, I'll -_ Sir!_" Amalia knocks on the wall behind which the driver is sitting. "_Sir!_"

They hear a clear, boyish voice, the dash of a whip and the whining of horses. The coach loses speed, stops; soon the horses are silent, and no other sound is heard save the merciless drumming rain. Nothing happens, and Amalia fears for a moment they may be preyed upon by unfriendly creatures of the night.

A side door is opened and the human youth, his hair white like the missing moon, stands there without a word. He doesn't make a move to help, but doesn't berate them, either. Amalia assists her sister out of the compartment and onto the ground.

Immediately the blond maiden crouches, holding onto a wet, muddy wheel for support, unable to suppress her sickness any longer. An arm is thrown around her shoulders, comforting; the warmth of the remains of her last meal quickly dissipate in a mist. They both glance at the driver, but he is not looking, preoccupied as he is with soothing the horses who neigh in unrest.

Camelia spits, then wipes the acrid liquid off her mouth with the back of a shivering hand. She is worried. She knows that it is not safe to be out here at night. They must get going. Neither of the girls understand why the human boy isn't pressing them to reembark the coach.

What they don't know is that under his vest, there is a ring, and the beasts feel its presence; they stay away, because the humble ringbearer belongs to him, the man -

- the man -

- the man breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against his wife's, his ebony eyelashes almost touching hers.

"You are beautiful."

She wants to believe his velvety voice, the low and tender hum he uses for no one but her. She can't hold his stare, too honest, too hopeful. She feels her blood rushing violently to her cheeks. They turn a darker, purple shade of blue and he finds her more desirable for it, letting his lips part slightly, exhaling. She looks away.

He rings a slender finger around her chin, directing her gaze back into his. Victorious, he steals another kiss from his bride. He climbs over her resting form, possessively, tightening his grip around her nape. She can't read the look on his face, for when her husband is wanton, he must have everything at once, hungry and demanding. He presses a hand on her chest, looking for something that should be there but isn't.

A chill runs down her spine. He can't pretend he didn't hear her vertebrae cackle in the hollow corset of her elaborate dress. Their tremor, brief and organic yet strangely musical, seems to awaken her.

She pushes the man away, mechanically, and he lets himself fall back while she sits on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, the rumour of the rainfall seeps into the room, encroaching the widening gap between their cooling bodies. She stands up, rearranges the trim of sleeves. Her every move is calculated, her contralto voice is void of emotion as she announces her planned course of action.

"I must put the baby to bed." She walks out of the nuptial room, her strut dignified by an imaginary sense of duty.

"Yes, the baby," he says simply in a grave and resigned voice, lowered so that she cannot hear him.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the soft thud of her footsteps, seeing in his mind's eye the form of the ugly-beautiful being he knows like the back of his hand, the perfect woman who completes him, but who, by a sick twist of fate, feels... incomplete.

From afar he can hear the distant hum of a lullaby, low and patient, punctuated by the tender shushing of a silent infant.

He opens his eyes to see his reflection on the ceiling. (He had a mirror placed there in hope that one day she'd look up and see beauty in it.)

The dollmaker heaves a sigh and sits up, brushing bony fingers through his unruly white hair, walking to the window. A vast portion of his estate can be seen from the third floor of the mansion, mostly desolate and uninviting shrubs spreading to the outskirts of the Black Forest. It's all _his _now: the barn, the stable, the wrecked building he likes to call 'the warehouse', a pile of debris baptized 'the workshop'.

His mahogany eyes are immediately drawn to the moving gate. Through it come his horses, his carriage and his precious new arrival, along with it the boy -

- the boy -

- the boy isn't used to be called Sir, or any name at all. He begs the two girls to leave him be. When they don't, he ignores them and sets off for the barn. They aren't like these countless girls he has taken to the master's mansion, blinded with the promise of fame or thirsty for the thrill of the unknown. It is easy not to feel for the other ones, selfish and plotting and mean, but somehow these two maidens are causing something inside him to twist and stir uncomfortably like the coming of a storm-

"What's your name?"

The boy is startled. He turns to see the sisters standing side by side, trembling from the cold or the nerves maybe, waiting.

"What is your name? You must have a name." The blonde's tone is more pressing; she looks at the mansion, visible from the wide door of the barn. Her sister can't seem to stay in place, surely very eager not to anger the dollmaker.

The servant boy looks up to the lit window where his master is standing. He lets a single word slip, as if letting go of a trinket he had been caught stealing.

"He named me Ryou."

The other sister, Amalia perhaps, (it was hard to tell them apart), narrows her eyes. She clutches at her bag, big and supple, made of the same inconspicuous material as her cloak and tugs at her sister's robes. "Let him be," she whispers to the blonde. "It will only give him trouble."

"Please have this, Ryou." Camelia shoves the soft piece of fabric in his gloved hand. "Thank you."

The boy wants to give it back but the two girls are already out, their steps light and agile as if treading on water. He examines the gift under the warm light of a lit window and recognizes the signature patterns of elfic embroidery, obviously made by a skilled artisan.

"Don't thank me." His whisper is answered by the exhaling of the idle horses, waiting to be unharnessed, fed, locked up and put to use the next day (or maybe not), unquestioning of their own fate, trusting.

The young servant wants to open his mouth wide and yell, but the imposing entrance of his master's dwelling is open already, ready to swallow its guests whole. In the dim yellow light peeking from inside, he recognizes, leaning in the door frame, upright and welcoming, the shape of the lady -

- the lady -

- the lady of the manor has gorgeous dark blue skin, an impossibly slender waist cast in a gorgeous corset and the class that one can only expect from the wife of a renown artist. Her smile is warm; so is the manor.

The smell of meat lingers in the air, a meat the girls have never smelled before (they probably wouldn't know because they never could really afford meat in the past). The lady is welcoming them even in the middle of the night without any hint of a reproach. She also happens to have pointy ears; it makes them feel comfortable to be around someone who looks a bit like them.

She takes their wet cloaks and compliments them on their dresses. She calls them talented, brave, hardworking; they blush. She then compliments their fair complexion before taking them to the salon, where the dollmaker will join them shortly, and yes, he is very interested in getting to know lovely ladies such as themselves!

The twins are left alone for a while, sitting politely on the edge of a divan far too beautiful to serve its purpose, arranging their hair. They wonder which of their working samples they would show him first. Would it be wise to wait for the dollmaker to ask for them? Or should they offer to demonstrate their initiative by having every piece laid out, ready for him to see when he comes into the salon?

They decide that they should be patient, not unhappy to let their eyes wander freely on the artwork displayed all around them. Figurines, dolls, more dolls and a few incredibly lifelike statues they have never heard of. Camelia leaves the divan to get a better look at the harpy crouching on top of an oak bookshelf: her pose is animalistic, her face sealed in a menacing rictus. She looks exactly like the wild tree harpies from the Black Forest, who hiss in warning at the travelers unfortunate enough to venture too close to their nests.

The seamstress wants to touch, but the dollmaker (I didn't mean to surprise you, there's nothing to apologize for) catches hold of her fingers. He observes them for a while, smoothing the skin on the back of her hand with his thumb, taking mental notes almost, flipping the obedient hand over and smoothing the palm again with his thumb.

Camelia finds herself aroused rather than scared by this unusually handsome human, his hard yet delicate features, his predatorial stance. Amalia watches the scene from her seat and frowns.

Eventually the hand is dropped. The dollmaker, displeased and uninterested, walks away from her without a glance. The young elf opens her mouth to apologize again, but he doesn't let her. "You'll have to take better care of that skin," he muses aloud as if to himself.

He takes place on the divan next to Amalia, who slouches a bit, crossing her arms on her lap. In an instant he is striking conversation with the redheaded twin, digging a headful of interrogations from her. She sits up, uncrosses her arms, open her eyes wide in interest as she speaks. He saw right through her; she is the intellectual type. Their conversation is light and easy.

Yes, he uses real hair whenever he can, he even once sacrificed some of his own to complete a piece; no, while it's undeniable that female models do sell better, he does enjoy bringing male figures to life as well; and while we're at it, does she have any experience with sewing leather?

Their chatter goes on and the lady still hasn't come back from her quarters. Camelia isn't jealous of the attention her sister is getting. Her interest for the dolls is sated and she can fully enjoy the view, the tall ceilings and artfully craved furniture. She relishes in the sight of the dollmaker's slim body and fluid hand gestures that accompany his rich voice during an explanation. He looks righteous and devoted enough to his craft. Surely it will be a pleasure to work under a great man such as him. It helps that in addition, he can visibly provide for himself and a handful of workers, unlike some other patrons. The blonde unconsciously wraps her arms around her womb.

She suddenly feels exhausted, sits down and lets her head fall back. She makes the mistake of closing her eyes; it makes her dizzy instead of relaxed. Her heartbeat accelerates. It's coming, slowly, creeping from her gut to the root of her tongue:

Nausea.

Panicking, she kneels down, a crisped hand covering her lips. Her breaths become shallow. She knows she won't be able to repress the urge in her gut. Quicker than she would expect, the putrid liquid wells up, scorching the back of her throat.

Another mouthful, then another, and Amalia is next to her, rubbing her back, renewing apologies to the dollmaker. They don't see him staring him down with his glassy eyes.

"My sister is going to be sick." A very accurate prediction.

Quickly, Amalia speaks and bows and begs his pardon, assuring him that she will assume all responsibility and that most importantly her sister really _is _healthy! She is not plagued with some sort of illness, it's just that she's pregnant and, oh, they really were planning on telling him, they didn't mean to lie to him or hide anything from him! If he could find a way to forgive them-

She stops herself, thinking that she might be throwing oil on the fire. As she runs out of sensible things to say a faint melody is heard from some other room of the manor. It is simple and low and insistent.

A lullaby, harmonious but not soothing like it should be.

The girls wait for a blow to come falling on them. Amalia braces herself; they have known even harsher punishments.

Nothing disturbs the song of the dollmaker's wife. Camelia looks up, her attraction for him taking over her fear of retribution.

The man's features soften to the point of being unreadable, then light up.

"Of course," he supplies languidly, weighing every word, "you may stay, and the baby-"

- the baby -

- the baby -

_the baby  
_

.

.

.

.n.

A/N The author hopes you enjoyed, welcomes reviews and criticism, and acknowledges the help of Chocolate-SugarCube for her useful help and advice.


End file.
